


The Queen of Anaward

by Swawasdottir



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Anaward, Collars, F/F, F/M, Femdom, M/M, Magic, Restraints, Sibling Rivalry, Slavery, Strong Female Characters, Whipping, f/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:21:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23363128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swawasdottir/pseuds/Swawasdottir
Summary: Magic has been rejected by Anawardian society for centuries. Their nobles have systematically suppressed the Magician's Guild until it vanished and magic became a forbidden practice. A society built on the back of slaves and suppression of magic emerged into a peaceful and stable one. But at what cost?Lady Ceridwen O'Nessa was born into a world of security and luxury. Her generation has never known hunger, war or fear. Yet she yearns for freedom from her mother's court and its rules.Brynmore was born into slavery. He has never known a day without hardship. Struggling to contain his ever-increasing magical gift he yearns to learn to control it.When the young noble and slave find their paths crossing they do not understand the roles they will play in a society on the brink of change.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first go at a fic, that has been developing as an idea in my head for ages.  
> Hoping to develop this :) Though my chronic carpal tunnel won't be helpful. 
> 
> The story is set in a medieval setting, so despite a fairly balanced society, it is still full of old fashioned characters. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)  
> I'm excited to see what people think of it

Among the many unwise choices made that night, taking another swig of her ale was one of the lesser ones. "Listen well, my friend", Ceridwen slurred, "I have played many men of your skill, but … alas, it does not appear a fair bargain to me." She indicated at the considerable amount of gold pieces and the emerald gemstone ring on the wooden table in front of her. "After all, this is a royal insignia. Imagine all the benefits it will bring to you and your - shall we say - honourable business ventures."   
The smuggler considered her. "I do not take well to womenfolk advising me on my business."   
A few bystanders gave acknowledging murmurs. Several of them had started gathering around them when their haggling over the wager had increased in volume  
"Do you take well to womenfolk advising you on the absence of your balls?" More bystanders cheered and ale glasses clinked together. The bard had long since stopped singing his tales of Queen Nessa’s dutiful reign and dedication to her people, on Ceridwen’s request. She drank and gambled to forgot just those.  
The insulted smuggler brought his hand down forcefully on the table, causing the coins and ring to bounce. ‘Very well you, ginger bitch. I will raise the wager by three silver coins.’  
"Three silver coins he says," Ceridwen laughed "He has still not found his balls! What do we say to three silver coins?", Her arrogant tone spurned to crowed to further comments.  
"Make it 3 gold coins!"  
"Show her her place!"  
"Get the ring!"  
There still did not seem to be a consensus among the gathered townspeople, whether they preferred Ceridwen or the smuggler to win. The smuggler clenched his jaw and spat on the floor. Ceridwen could not place his accent or clothing in her inebriated state but judging on his reaction to her comments about his manliness or lack thereof, he was not used to women talking to him in such a manner. While hot-headedness might have been his downfall that night, Ceridwen’s carelessness was hers.  
"If I win I will pay every good man’s and woman’s drink until the good innkeeper’s barrels run empty!" Ceridwen announced loudly, staggering for balance she abruptly rose to her feet with her mug raised in a salute and the crowd cheered  
"Raise the wager!" someone shouted, and it manifested itself as a chant among the crowd. "Very well!" the smuggler replied, "I will throw in that cursed bastard slave!" The crowd quieted immediately, and some began to regard Ceridwen solemnly, all promise of free ale forgotten.  
"What use would I have for a slave?" Ceridwen said dismissively, finishing her ale in a long swig and slamming it back onto the table. "Raise the wager by 5 gold coins or leave it be."  
"The cursed bastard can take care of your womanly needs", the smuggler snorted, "No free man would voluntarily bed a woman with a tongue as vile as yours!"  
More cheers from the crowd.  
"Oh, on the contrary, my friend," she gave him a sarcastic wink. "Raise the wager by 20 gold coins and I will raise it too. If you win, I will show you what the tongue of a vile woman can do." Keeping eye contact with the smuggler, she pulled the green ribbon from her the nape of her neck and her red curls sprang free framing her freckled face. He snorted. "You are a spitfire of a woman. But you are in over your head, girl." Reaching into his vest pocket he pulled out his purse and emptied the coins onto the table.   
"15 gold coins!"  
The crowd cheered again.  
"15 coins and the slave", Ceridwen replied, "Final offer." She smiled confidently at the smuggler. "Now you want him after all?" The smuggler frowned.  
"What I want is 20 more gold pieces. I’m sure he is worth 5. Agreed?"  
"Agreed!" the smuggler yelled. Ceridwen extended her arm and smuggler clasped it in the common Anawardian manner. Maybe not a foreigner after all. But the thought did not concern Ceridwen. Nor did the wager. In a drunken stupor, she had seen a chance to cause a scene in the local tavern before returning to the capital and she had taken it. Her golden ring with crusted emeralds, a gift of her mother on the day of her majority lay forgotten on the table when the dices were thrown the first time. The smuggler hoped to see Ceridwen’s cocky smile fall when she saw his score of two ash tree symbols on three dices. The crowd roared and ale spilled to the floor as glasses were raised in celebration by the smuggler’s supporters. Nevertheless, her smile grew bolder and she grabbed the dices from the table cupping them in both hands. Causing a scene was no longer satisfying enough before the walls of the castle would close in on her again. Gambling away a smuggler’s fortune, on the other hand, was exactly the type of amusement she craved before the dull courtly life she was headed for. She let go of the dices and they landed on the table in unison. All three displaying a birch tree. More cheers and the sound of spilled ale filled the tavern. Even the bard picked up his music again, his lute reaching a fast crescendo as the smuggler cursed violently.   
Ceridwen’s field of vision, on the other hand, was stuck on the three birch trees. Curse all that is holy. The birch tree representing the royal house of Anaward. The birch tree representing her mother. Some days there seemed to be no escape from who she was meant to be. A sudden charge toward the table shook her out of her stupor. Still cursing the smuggler had attempted to reach for the gold coins.   
"Come now, my friend,’ Ceridwen looked at the man with a smug expression on her face. ‘No one likes a sore loser. This is the money for the good folk in here, who will remember this night for some time to come."   
Cheers and music made the smuggler's response inaudible. He stood up and spat next to Ceridwen’s feet, hoping to provoke her. Provoking was not a matter of question, as Ceridwen had been trying to do the very same all night. Keeping eye contact with the smuggler she spat onto his boots in a similar manner. "Is that unwomanly of me to do, good sir? I apologise. How rude of me to treat you so," she asked raising an eyebrow and cocking her head, a smirk playing on her lips. When there was no reaction from the smuggler but clenched fists she added. "A shame you lost, but there seems to have been no cock for me to suck anyway!"   
The crowd, not aware of the palpable threat of violence in the air, roared in laughter. Ceridwen noticed the smuggler reach for a sword attached to his belt and she quickly kicked at the table causing all the coins to fall to the floor. "More ale!" she yelled and people closest to Ceridwen started gathering up the coins. More and more drunk people lurched to the floor, trying to collect as many coins as they could reach. Side-stepping them as best as possible she smirked at the smuggler, who was now stuck between the people. With one final vulgar gesture at the smuggler, she turned to go to the bar and get another ale, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.  
"My lady," a familiar voice greeted from behind her.   
Ceridwen spun around and rolled her eyes. "Lady Caron." She mocked-courtesied to the knight dressed in black leather and breastplate displaying a white birch tree.  
"I assumed we would find you in a similar establishment and state." The knight, Lady Caron, replied. "I assumed I told you to wait at the magistrate’s estate. It appears to me we are both right. However, I must bid you farewell now. My plans for tonight are not done." The hand which had just been on Ceridwen’s shoulder caught her upper arm.   
"And what are your plans for tonight? Seems to me you have caused enough excitement in this town."   
"Indeed. But would you not agree similar entertainment is so rarely found in the capital behind those cursed castle walls? I must seek it while I can. Who knows what stiff ballgowns my mother has managed to procure in my absence or which boring nobleman she wishes to marry me off to this season."   
"Cerid," Lady Caron hissed. "Your mother means well by you and you better start behaving like a noble before we enter the capital. Now go back to the magistrate’s estate before he further questions your disappearance."   
Ceridwen’s eyes flared and she placed her own hand on top of Lady Caron’s. "If I am to behave like we were taught at court, you will let go of my arm and refer to me by my proper title, Lady Caron." She glared at her friend and travel companion.   
"My apologise, your Highness." Lady Caron replied and let go of her arm. "But as your friend, I care more for your own skin than you seem to do." Before she could say anything, the smuggler had pushed his way through the crowd and walked toward the two women. ‘Time to leave,’ Caron was about to drag Ceridwen out behind her.  
"The good sir has just come to congratulate me on my win, has he not." The smuggler, having heard the remark narrowed his eyes, but saw the royal crest on Lady Caron’s breastplate. His narrowed blue eyes widened upon the recognition of the crest and Lady Caron’s standing. The birch tree marked her as part of the royal family’s guard. Not a sight a smuggler involved in tavern gambling would welcome.   
"Indeed, I was about to hand you these papers. Your price waits outside." He handed Ceridwen a well-used parchment. "Good luck with that cursed bastard. My price will be much more useful" He whispered thinking Caron could not hear him. With another glare he reserved for Ceridwen he was gone.   
"What have you done now?", Caron asked.   
Ceridwen groaned. "It appears I have won a cursed slave.’ 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, back with another one :) 
> 
> As a feard, my carpal tunnel and Uni exams/essay have kept me from writing quite a bit, but I'm hoping to get more done soon.
> 
> I'd love to know what you all think of Bryn :)

Curses were not to be taken lightly. Ceridwen knew that all too well. She had grown up with a superstitious mother who had employed renowned scholars to educate her daughters. The four royal daughters had been taught the destruction a curse spoken before their birth had brought upon their mother. Had seen its aftermath on her scarred face, her limping leg and her tears shed on days throughout the years. Ceridwen should have feared a cursed man, drunk or not. However, the bruised and beaten man in front of her did not invoke fear in her. Pity more like. He was kneeling in the dirt, his torso slouched and seemingly only held upright by the iron shackles fixing his stretched arms to a wooden pole behind him. The rain and cold night air must have been causing him further discomfort, but as Ceridwen stepped closer she saw the laceration on his back, no doubt left behind by a whip. He might have welcomed the cooling breeze after all. The noises of celebrating townsfolk from the tavern faded into the background as she crouched down in front of him. 

“They call you cursed. Why is that?” she asked considering him closer. His shoulder-length hair had been tied at the nape of his neck, but shorter strands had escaped and hid his face from her scrutinising gaze. She couldn’t tell its colour in the dimly lit alley outside the tavern, but she assumed it must have been lighter than the common brown hair in Anaward’s more traditional villages in the South.

“They call me many things,” his voice was rough from disuse. He did not raise his eyes or give her any indication he would answer the second part of her question. Impatiently she grabbed his chin and forced him to look upward. The chains rattled when Ceridwen seized him. It seemed he had not imagined she would touch him and the gesture had caught him off-guard. When Ceridwen fixed his gaze upon his face and gave no hint of releasing his chin he stilled immediately. The rain drizzled down on her cloak, dampening her hair, and making her shiver, but she found herself intrigued by her price. She had not expected his answer. 

He grimaced when Ceridwen touched his cheek with her other hand, trying to determine whether crusted blood or dirt had gotten caught in his beard. She assumed it was the former judging by his reaction. Despite the lack of light in the alley, the colour of his beard was lighter than she had thought his hair to be, potentially hinting at a Northern heritage. His nose was straight and she thought underneath the dirt, blood, and beard she would find pronounced high cheekbones. Indeed, he would clean up nicely, if given the chance. Not that it mattered. She had no intention of taking him behind the Open Gate in the capital. What use was a slave to her? 

“What do they call you?”

“Trouble, cursed, whore, bastard,” he trailed off seemingly with no intention to continue. Growing more impatient she squeezed his chin, applying pressure to his blood crusted chin. He sucked in a breath and the chains rattled again. 

“Why?” Ceridwen asked again, her tone dangerously even. 

“Because simpletons will always call what they do not understand by names,” he spat, raising his eyes to meet hers defiantly. Light blue eyes flashed anger and a pronounced hatred at her she had not expected.

“While I do not disagree with your judgment of the townspeople, do not make the mistake of considering me one of them.” She squeezed his chin again and he tried to wrench his face from her grip. Unsuccessfully so, as she held it steady and pushed him against the wooden pole behind him. He gritted his teeth when his back impacted the pole and his breathing became uneven.

“Also do not make the mistake to disrespect your betters.”

“My apologies, my lady,” he said, lowering his eyes again. “ I did not mean to insult you.”

She barely registered the second part of his sentences as she realised his chin suddenly. “My lady?” she questioned. 

“Forgive me if I was wrong to presume you were of noble birth,” while he phrased it eloquently and apologetic, he certainly failed to sound truly remorseful. Rather he seemed amused at Ceridwen’s surprise of being addressed by her title by a stranger in the Northern part of Anaward.

She looked down at her plain leather breeches, simple green tunic, and black cloak. Nothing made of fine materials or the quality her mother’s seamstress worked with. Her clothing could not have given it away and neither could have her jewellery. She wore none save for the carved stone her father had gifted her many years ago fastened to a simple leather band around her neck. The stone was small and almost disappeared in the neckline of her tunic and cloak. It would have certainly been hidden from the slave in front of her and even if he had glimpsed it, it would mark her as a religious person, rather than one of noble birth. 

As if he had followed her trail of thought he added: “Your chosen clothing did not betray you, my lady. Your guard, who entered the tavern on her own and returned with you, did.”

Of course, Carron’s birch tree would make her stand out among the townspeople. Even though it was a market town, benefitting heavily from Anaward’s sea trade routes, Ceridwen had been sure to choose a part of town not frequented by any of the nobles that had bored her at dinner at the magistrate’s estate. 

“What makes you think she is my guard?”

“No knight would handle a - forgive my words – drunk women as gently as she did. Not in this establishment.”

Ceridwen huffed. “You are perceptive, I’ll give you that.”

“A necessary skill for survival in this world.” The amused tone to his voice was gone and he sounded solemn again. A skill Ceridwen had certainly not yet acquired. While the cold night air and conversation with the slave had sobered her up every so slightly, the effects of the ale still lingered on her. 

“What other skills have you acquired then? You might have guessed my standing, yet you did not fully guess my title.” She drew the worn parchment the smuggler had handed her from where she had stuck it underneath her belt and held it up in front of the slave to read. His eyes fixed on the paper and he mouthed a couple of words. A literate slave belonging to a smuggler? Another thing she had not expected to come out of this evening. 

“I must apologise then, Mistress.” He shifted nervously on his knees. 

“I would lie if I said I haven’t enjoyed this conversation. I might keep you beyond the Open Gate, after all.”

“The Open Gate, Mistress?” Before Ceridwen had a chance to explain their impending sea journey to the capital, Carron appeared behind her. 

“Cerid”, she hissed, “Get up, you are getting that filth all over you! Gods above, I am a guard, not a nursemaid.” 

“Bold tongue again, ey?” Ceridwen replied making no indication of rising. She knew Carron was used to her childish and erratic behaviour when she was drunk. It might have been what made her fall out of love with Ceridwen years ago. Maybe it had been the appointment of Carron as the role of the captain of her guard.   
“Let’s leave this place. This alley reeks of piss and so does he”, Carron nodded at the slave in front of Ceridwen. 

“That he does,” she agreed as she got up and wiped her hands on her wet breeches. “It appears, I have won a rather unusual slave. He is literate and quite perceptive.”

“I am sure that will raise his value at the market tomorrow for whoever picks him up.” Cerid could tell Carron was growing impatient with her. Yet she did not care. 

“I intend to take him with me,” Ceridwen stated with finality in the tone of a petulant child or spoilt royal, with which Carron was well familiar with. 

“I am sure you do,” Carron replied, trying to steer her away from the slave. “We need to go before that smuggler comes back.”

At the mentioning of his previous owner, the slave’s gaze shot up to Ceridwen again. “Mistress, you hold my title now, it would be unwise to leave me in this alley. Someone might try to steal me before you can return tomorrow.” While Ceridwen had not picked up on Carron’s urgency to leave the alley and the slave, he had understood her intention of leaving him behind.

“Indeed it would,” Ceridwen agreed and started fumbling around with the chain holding his manacled wrists to the pole. 

“Hold your title? What do you mean?” Carron considered the slave. He indicated at the letter strapped to Ceridwen’s belt with his chin. 

Carron sighed exasperated and ripped the paper from Ceridwen’s side. “So, you do actually own him.” She turned to Ceridwen again “There is no scenario in which your mother will allow you to add an uneducated slave you won in a drunken stupor in a tavern game! What were you thinking?”

The mention of her mother brought Ceridwen out of said drunk stupor vehemently. “My mother does not dictate my every move, Lady Carron. Nor should you remind me of her constantly. Now if you would acquire the key to these chains I would be pleased. I wish to bath and sleep this off.”

Carron grumbled and made her way back to the tavern’s door. More light flooded the alley and the drunken chants of a crowd singing along to the bard with his lute echoed through it.   
Ceridwen recognised the song. She knew it well. Too well. The bard had continued to sing the ballad of Queen Nessa of Anaward, the chorus an emotional homage to her successful crush of the magician’s guild at the great personal cost of losing her husband, son, and family, cursed to never bear another son, but only daughters. Of which Ceridwen happened to be the second one. Lady Ceridwen O’Nessa of Anaward. Bastard daughter of Queen Nessa the Fair and Brother Kreyheart.   
There was no escaping who she was, not even in drinking and gambling like a commoner in a tavern.


End file.
